A Phangirl's Guide to Pestering an Erik
by MasqueradingThroughLife
Summary: When a rather odd phangirl gets on the wrong side of a feline magician, Erik may just have found himself a new housemate. On Permanent Hiatus.
1. Mr Mistoffelees

**Chapter One**

_**Mr. Mistoffelees**_

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**AN: **Yes.This IS one of those crazy self-insert phics. Waddaya gonna do about it? Please excuse the inside jokes, it will get better, I swear it. So. I'd like to thank my beta/grammar nazi WastedxOpportunity aka Kimberly. She has an amazing POTO/Cats crossover. Go look. I order you. /end advertisement

**Disclaimer: **I do not own POTO anymore than I own the straightjacket I strapped in.

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"Where is it?" fumed Jordie, blunt fingers pushing her brown bangs out of her bespectacled face. Hazel eyes scanned the rows and rows of CDs. One hand affectionately patted the _Phantom of the Opera _OCR. 

The teenager sighed. "And _why _can't they give musicals a separate section from movie and TV soundtracks?" She pawed through the discs, clumsily pushing past the soundtrack for _Carrots Attack_.

"Aha!" cried Jordan exultantly, reaching for the _Cats _CD. "Found it at last!"

"Mine!" piped up a voice, snatching the disc.

"Hey!" Jordan snapped, glaring at the thief. "That's the last one on sale–Kimberly?" She stared at the familiar face of her fellow phan and email buddy...who appeared to be dressed as one of the Jellicle Cats.

"Hello, Masque," Kimberly replied, grinning blithesomely.

"Squee!"

Kimberly found herself the victim of a hug. Jordie found herself the victim of Kimberly's spiked collar.

"Air...air!"

"Oh! Sorry."

"I'll live."

"Shopping!" Jordan commented randomly.

"...'Scuse me?"

"Let's go shopping!"

"...Okay..."

And so Jordie dragged her pal to the checkout line, and then into the rest of the mall.

* * *

Six shopping bags later, the duo found themselves sitting in the food court, nibbling on french fries. 

"So...what are you doing in Boringsville, California, oh oddest chum o' mine?" Jordan inquired.

"Well," her comrade began. "I'm here because in the real world, you needed a plot device for a story, and I suggested using myself as one."

"Oh. Okay." Munch. Munch. "Plot device for what?"

"I don't know."

Kimberly's backpack started to sway. The two girls gazed at it languidly.

"Your pack is moving."

"I can see that, Masque. Thank you for stating the obvious."

"No need to be snooty. I'm older than you. Show respect for your elders."

The pack started rolling towards the edge of the table.

"What does age have to do with–"

"Way back before ye were a twinkle in yer mama's eye, I 'ad to crawl to the daycare and back 'ome again in just a nappy made o' sabertooth tiger skin, in the snow, both ways, while me mama and pop were out huntin' fer woolly mammoths, ye young whippersnapper, ye!"

The backpack fell to the floor.

"Oh, now you're just being silly–"

"Get me out of this bag!"

"Your pack just talked."

"I heard."

Jordie oh-so-gently picked up the talking baggage, and oh-so-carefully opened it.

A little black cat hopped out, and jumped onto the table.

"Presto!" he said.

"It's _Mr. Mistoffelees!" _Kimberly squealed, eyes glazing over in joy. She rapturously pulled the adorable cat into her arms. He purred, snuggling against the girl.

"Can I see him?" cooed Jordan, reaching out.

"No! He's mine!"

"But–"

"He likes me best!"

"But–"

"Mine! My own! My preciousssss..."

"But can't I just pet him?" Jordan reached out again.

As it so happened, Misto did _not _want to see Jordie at _all. _And he told her so, with a very sparkly magic trick.

Zappyfrytobits!

"_Aaaaaaiiiieeee!"

* * *

_

_Today_, Erik mused, _was not a good day to get out of bed...coffin...bed. _First, he'd realized that he hadn't eaten in seven days. And, as everyone knows, going seven days without food makes one weak. So, he'd tried to cook himself a piece of toast. And he'd burnt it.

_Second_, he sighed, stretching sore shoulders, he'd run out of ink in the middle of writing a note to the management. So off he'd slunk to steal a bottle from Pierre-the-violinist. But it was a different shade of red, which made his note very unprofessional-looking. And _then, _that daroga had visited, trying to be all buddy-buddy, as he had every week since _she'd_ left six months ago.

A bell jangled by the front door. The Phantom ignored it, scribbling down another line of lyrics.

Another bell jangled. Someone was wandering through the labyrinth of cellars beneath his opera house. Erik groaned, sinking his face–mask–into his long, skeletal hands.

"Leave me alone!" he murmured. "Why can't anyone leave poor old Erik alone? All he wants is peace!"

Jingle, jangle. The trespasser was by the lake.

"Let me be!"

Jingle, jangle. The trespasser was _ringing_ the bell by the lake.

"If it's that miserable Persian again..." He stood, swept his cloak around his shoulders, put on his hat, and made way for his boat.

* * *

There was a man, cast in shadows, standing on the dock. Erik poled the gondola closer, witch-fire eyes glaring. 

"Daroga?"

"No..." It was the shade.

"Oh. What do _you_ want?"

The shade shifted slightly, and Erik realized that the man was holding a body.

"I found this young girl, sleeping soundly in the fourth cellar. The fourth cellar, if memory serves, is_ your _territory."

Uneasiness flickered in the back of the Phantom's mind. "_All_ of the cellars are _Erik's territory. All _of the _opera house_ is _Erik's territory. _And it is your job to make sure people stay in the upper levels of Erik's territory, namely, the opera, and that they do not stray into the cellars."

"What I _meant _is: it's my job that they do not roam below the third cellar. If they make it into the fourth or fifth, it's your problem to deal with. So this lass is your problem." The shade brusquely dropped the body into the gondola, causing the vessel to dip low. The child stirred, and grumbled softly.

"What am _I_ supposed to do with her?"

"Strangle her, as it seems to be your speciality. Or keep her." The shade tipped his cap mockingly and ambled away.

Erik regarded the girl helplessly. _Definitely not a good day to get out of bed._


	2. Of Glomps

**Chapter Two**

_**Of Glomps**_

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**AN:** Thanks for all of the reviews! -feels special**-** Now go check out WastedxOpportunity's POTO/Cats crossover, "Presto!"

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Phantom, but I do own...myself.

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Loud, thunderous music played.

"...murrrgh..." Jordan mumbled, throwing an arm over her face.

_Loud_, thunderous music.

"Go 'way, mum..." She pulled a fluffy, goose feather pillow over her head.

Loud, _thunderous _music.

"Rest...rest...rest..." Black-stockinged legs kicked off a downy comforter.

_Loud, thunderous music._

"Stop it. Please. Please?" Furious green slashes appeared in a pinched face.

"Oh my gosh-ness..." She wasn't in her room. Jordie patted blindly at the bedside table, fingers closing gratefully around her folded glasses, before desperately shoving them over her eyes.

The familiar, if despised, yellow walls and white furniture had been replaced. Light pink, rose-patterned wallpaper. Dark, weathered furniture. Soft, wine bedding.

She slid out of bed, feet landing on the cold wood floor. She took a tentative step, and discovered her brown leather shoes.

Hands combed through ragged, chin-length curls. "I am so going to skin that cat, with his Zappyfrytobits-ness and his cuteness."

Jordan paused. "Meep!" There weren't any doors...there weren't any mirrors.

* * *

"Get me outta here!" 

Erik ceased his playing.

Encouraged, the child cried out again. "_Get! Me! Out! Of! Here!"_

The Phantom walked into the hall, one hand holding the Punjab lasso at the ready.

_Creak..._ went the hidden door.

She stepped into the hallway.

A pause.

"_Squee!"_

Erik suddenly found himself staggering backwards as the girl threw herself at him, wrapping her legs about his waist and grasping his gaunt shoulders.

* * *

" 'Ello, poppet!" she chirped, grinning foolishly. 

"Let go of me, mademoiselle!" he hissed. She quickly raised one hand to the level of her eyes, smirking triumphantly. "Get off of me, girl!"

"Okay, okay, I'm goin'!" She allowed the Opera Ghost to pry her off of his person. "Hold your horses, mate."

He leaned over the brat, fingering the catgut rope. "And just _what, _mam'selle, were you doing?"

"Glomping you."

"...and what is 'glomping'?"

"Precisely what I just did."

"Ah." He stared at the quizzical child. _What an odd girl. _She appeared to be only half-dressed, wearing a black skirt with creamy lace trimmings and a simple white camisole, a black lace shawl slung carelessly over her shoulders. Her hair was far too short, and she wore the jewelry of a gypsy woman.

She caught him staring, and smiled sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes. "So..." she murmured, edging closer.

He raised the punjab ominously. "I have half a mind, mam'selle, to..."

"But you won't, Erik."

Erik started. "How...how do you know Erik's name?"

"I have my ways..."

"And they would be...?"

"You wouldn't believe me," she replied, grinning. One arm gestured theatrically, and her bangles clinked pleasantly.

"Try me."

Another grin. "Okay then. You see, I'm from the United States, a hundred and thirty-odd years into the future, and you're famous. There's a book, two books, several books, ten or so movies, three musicals, millions of fanfiction, and several thousand adoring phans...All regarding you, _monsieur le fantome._"

The Phantom glared, not that you could tell through the black mask, featureless and simple. "Enough of your games!" he snapped, striding forward.

"Hey, watch it, bub!" she yelped, backing away. "I've got proof!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah! I do! Where's my backpack? I thought I had it with me."

He pointed to a door. "In the parlor." She walked in.

"It looks like the Pottery Barn exploded in here!" She came back out–"'Ere ya go, love." –and gave him a thin pink box. "Put the two little black puffs–yes, those–in your ears, and then press on that arrow next to the two lines..."

"Mon dieu!"

"_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came. That voice which calls to me, and speaks my name..."_

She held out a book. "And here's the baby that started it all."

He took it numbly.

"_The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind."_

"Hey, could I..." Erik waved a hand absently. He barely noticed when the girl crept out the door.


	3. Stark Raving

**Chapter Three**

_**Stark Raving**_

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**AN: **Eeee, thanks for all the reviews! Now...-in an announcer's voice- Go! Go now! Read "Presto!" by WastedxOpportunity...and! And that's not all!Also checkout "Close Encounters of the Self Insertion Kind" by My-Echo. Two marvelous phics, fora great price: two reviews for both of these lovely ladies! Read on today/endadvertisement

**Disclaimer: **I own it not...

* * *

Jordan scurried back into the parlor, hands clasped over her mouth, to slump gratefully into an overstuffed armchair.

Erik. The Phantom. The masked sex god. The DBCA darling. The man who had the hearts of thousands of squee-ing phans in his palm. He was in the hallway...and she'd _attacked him_.

"Oh god..."

True, she'd only glomped him, but how was _he _supposed to know that a glomp is a sort of friendly greeting? She shouldn't have done it. It was bad manners.

"I'm a moron."

But who could resist? To see the ghost of one's dreams, cloak-wearing and magnificent, and so near...And thankfully, black-masked and very much Leroux, her favorite Phantom.

_Thank the lord it wasn't Gerik, or I'd have turned vampire on him._ A wolfish smile.

After a moment, Jordan crept to the door, peering through the crack. Erik was leaning against the far wall, still listening to the music. Long, thin fingers tapped elegantly in time.

_Meow. _A slight swoon caught just in time. (What a Mary Sue thing to do.)

_What does one say to the Phantom of the Opera? _Jordan pondered. "I love you with all of my heart, truly. I do! Now forget that little blonde tart of yours, let's go make the music of the night, baby!" would most definitely not cut the mustard, though it did inspire pleasant thoughts of an NC17 rating.

"Ah, well..."

* * *

Jordie sashayed into the hall. Erik pulled out the earphones and turned in her direction, head tilted to one side like a questioning puppy. _A questioning puppy who would bite me as soon as look at me..._

"Yes?"

His voice...a voice like honey and velvet, silk and steel. _Ah-swoon, ah-swoon, sa-woon–spam. I should've said something by now. _"Err–nothing. Never mind." She sighed softly, leaning against the wall next to the masked man. An uncomfortable silence stretched out...then–

"How did you get here, mam'selle?"

"I annoyed an evil, yet adorable, cat."

"Mm..." The Phantom seemed to be mulling over the situation.

"I believe," he announced slowly, "That I've gone mad."

"Ah."

"There is no other account for this...chat...that we are having."

"I could be telling the truth, you know." Jordan snapped.

"No, no, thank you. I prefer my explanation."

"So you're mad?"

"Yes, indeed I am."

"Stark raving?"

"Possibly."

"Funny," she said absently, one hand at eye level, "I was under the impression that you were _already _unhinged. So have you simply gone crazier?"

Erik glowered at her. She couldn't see his eyes in the buttery light from the oil lamps, but she could feel them, charring her skin. "Perhaps I have gone sane. Am I behaving in a sane and rational fashion?"

"I wouldn't know, love, I've never really _seen _a completely sane and rational person, I don't think."

Again with the invisible glower. "So. Is Erik sane, or is he not?"

"If Erik keeps talking in the third person, I'd say _not_."

A pause. "How did we even get into this subject of conversation, mademoiselle?"

"Well, you brought it up! And please stop calling me 'mademoiselle.' I'm no delicate little lady!"

"I can easily see that," he replied frostily.

"Call me Jordie."

"Jordie?"

She snuck a glance at her companion. "My name is Jordan, really, but I hate it."

"Jordan is a male name."

"Precisely."

"But is Jordie not a male name as well?"

"To-may-to, to-mah-to"

"What do you– never mind. I daresay I do not want to know." He shook his head. "I would introduce myself properly, but it seems that you already know quite a share of information about me."

"Oh, no, go right ahead."

Erik glided gracefully in front of her, before bowing elegantly. A cold, bony hand captured her barely-warmer one, and pressed the back of it against his mask.

"My name is Erik, mademoiselle _Jordan_."

"...sq...u ...ee..." Jordie whispered feebly.

* * *

"I'm sorry?" Erik asked. "I didn't quite catch..." 

"I think I need a nap," Jordan announced. "Care to join me?"

He goggled, blushing slightly behind his mask. "Mademoiselle!"

"Kidding, kidding!"

"I would hope so, mam'selle!"

"I am. Don't get your knickers in a twist!"

"Mademoiselle!" His head was starting to hurt.

"It's a figure of speech, love!"

"Please desist in calling me 'love' mam'selle."

"Sorry, love, I won't anymore, love," she retorted cheekily.

"Mam'selle, I've had enough of this, I daresay."

Her eyes flickered over his unreadable mask. "Oh?"

"Leave. _Now_. Before Erik makes it his business that you...depart."

The girl's face crumpled in on itself. "Don't make me go!" she whined. "I have _nowhere_! I don't know how to get home! And I can barely speak French, I have nothing to help me survive, no money, no suitable clothing, please..."

Her sniveling was painful to listen to. "Mademoiselle–"

"I can be of use here! I can clean! I can organize! I can haunt the opera so that you have more time to compose! And I can do...other things..." _Other things! _Erik wondered if she was _trying _to give him a heart attack. "...like grocery shopping!" Oh. "Please, you'll never see me! I won't bother you!"

The girl–Jordan– sounded so pathetic, and desperate. _And as if she wanted to stay with poor, unhappy Erik. _He cleared his throat.

"All right. You can stay–"

"_Thank _you!"

"–for a week. If you've behaved and stayed out of my way, perhaps I will permit you to remain here for a longer period of time."

"Squee!"


	4. Shopping and Packhorses

**Chapter Four**

_**Shopping and Packhorses**_

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**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews! Meehee...Now, as per usual, go read WastedxOpportunity's POTO/CATS crossover "Presto!" and My-echo's phic, "Close Encounters of the Self Insertion Kind." Thank you.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own it. But I do own my very own Erik doll! Hahahaha! I shall call him Erikins and he shall be mine and he shall be my Erikins! Hahahahaha!

...I'm okay...

* * *

The next day, Jordan was trying to "earn her keep." She'd been given a tour of the little flat by the lake; the "Pottery Barn" parlor, the library, the music room, the dining room and connecting kitchen...all but two rooms, one which was most likely Erik's...but as for the other...who knew? Most of the rooms were frighteningly clean ("Obsessive-compulsive, much?" she'd muttered), but that desk in the music room was terribly cluttered. 

She scooped up an armful of folders and knickknacks, humming tunelessly, before twirling lightly on one bare foot.

"Dancing, are we?" a voice said suddenly.

"Aaaiieee!" Jordie screeched, arms flailing wildly. Papers flew like light-hungry moths, and a statuette dropped on her foot. "Ow!" She hopped away, face scrunched up in pain, only to fall on her side, taking several of the items on the desk with her. An ink bottle promptly spilled liquid rubies all over her shirt.

Erik knelt by her, empty eyes surveying the damage. "You are, without a doubt, the clumsiest person I have ever known, mademoiselle Jordan."

"Never sneak up on a girl when she's cleaning, you _prat!" _she snarled, for lack of a better reply.

* * *

A swish of skirt. "Erik, love..." His head snapped up from his book. _Now what does she want?_

She was standing in the doorway to the library, wrapped firmly in her shawl. "Do you have a shirt I could borrow?" Jordan asked sweetly. His sunken eyes widened. _She's just wearing a flimsy shawl? _He looked away, at his book, at the globe, at anything but the girl."As you may have noticed, since you caused and witnessed it and all, I spilled a _little _bit of ink on my cami."

He stared at her in ever-growing horror. "You want to borrow one of my _shirts?_ Are the dresses in the wardrobe not good enough for her highness?"

"The previous owner was a _twig."_ A pause. "Been cross-dressing, Erik?"

He leapt to his feet, glowering like a cat who has had his tail tugged on. "I will not even dignify that comment with a response."

Jordan sidled up to him, smiling demurely. "Please let me borrow just _one _shirt!"

"You want to borrow one of _Erik's shirts?_"

"Mmm...well...yes...until you take me shopping."

"_Shopping!" _he hissed.

"Yes, shopping! I don't have anything to wear! There isn't enough food here! I need clothing, and chocolate, and edibles, and chocolate, and shoes, and chocolate, and scarves, and chocolate! And did I mention–"

"–Chocolate? Perhaps you might have..."

"So. Will you lend me a shirt, and take me shopping?"

Mutter. Mutter grumble. "Fine...I'll take you this evening."

"Thank you!" She threw her arms around his skinny form, shawl half-slipping off of her shoulders. Erik tensed for a moment, before pushing her away.

"Have you no sense of propriety?"

Jordie laughed as she wrapped herself back up. "Honey, anyone who goes through middle school gym class loses their modesty!"

* * *

Jordie was wearing one of Erik's shirts. _She was wearing one of the Phantom of the Opera's shirts!_

"There is a god."

It was soft, it was cuddly, and it was _Erik's shirt._ It was also much too big. The sleeves trailed several inches over her fingers, and the whole thing kept sliding down one shoulder. But who cares? It was _Erik's shirt!_

"I wonder, is this how a Mary Sue feels after a five page long wedding night with Gerik, when they wake up the next morning and she wears his shirt and they have croissants for breakfast and are giddy and OOC right before they go at it like bunnies again?"

There was a knock on the door. "Mademoiselle Jordan?"

"Yeees?"

The door creaked open, and a bag went flying at her. "Get dressed. We're going out." The door slammed.

"Someone missed their morning nap," she grumbled, pulling out a dress from the sack.

* * *

The girl ran one hand over the tunnel's wall. "We are actually _in _the opera house now?" she inquired excitedly. 

"Yes. We have been for the past five minutes, mademoiselle," Erik snapped. "Stop _asking."_

"But–but–but! I want to see the stage!" Jordie tipped her head back to look him in the eye, for the tunnel was dark, and his eyes shone like fireflies.

"Listen! Do you hear any singing? No. You do not. Rehearsals ended an hour ago."

"I still want to see the stage!" She twirled lightly on one foot, her dress (which Erik had stolen from one of the seamstresses) rustling softly.

"Perhaps later."

She pouted. "Meh!"

"Here," he said, opening a hidden door. The pair slipped out, and into the Parisian dusk.

Erik glanced at Jordan's awestruck face, something that might have been a smile tripping awkwardly around twisted lips.

Crowds of flaring colors, like desserts at a banquet, milled around the carriages and shops and stalls that made up the glorious china, dancing, kissing, fighting, laughing, talking, loving. The ghost of the opera sighed soundlessly, steering the dizzied girl into a ladies boutique.

The shop girl, who had been sleepily studying her nails, gladly diverted her attention to the customers. "May I help–" she began, before pale eyes caught sight of his plain black mask. One hand flew to her throat, and her voice glued itself to the roof of her mouth.

"Yes...if you would be so kind," Erik murmured, "My..._companion_... is newly arrived from America, and is sorely in need of fashionable clothing."

The woman's face lit up like a lantern with understanding, and she snickered behind one hand. _Let her draw whatever conclusions she likes, if it gets me out of here. _

"I will gladly help mademoiselle!"

"Good, good!" He turned to Jordie. "May I leave you in this young lady's hands?"

"Nope!" The pest chuckled. "You have to stay, and play packhorse for me."

And so began the Shopping Trip From Hell. The shop girl and the rat cooed and sighed over day dresses, morning dresses, afternoon dresses, visiting dresses, reception dresses, evening dresses...where would the girl wear any of these? Would the rats skulking in the cellars care if she wore a rose-pink tea gown or stained rags?

"Red is perfect for your complexion!" insisted the young woman. "It would look beautiful, wouldn't it, sir?" she added slyly.

"Humph," he muttered.

Chemises, petticoats, undergarments, nightgowns, bustles. Would mademoiselle prefer embroidered or lacy corsets, in bright or pastel colors? Oh, but mademoiselle just had to have all of them! And of course, Erik-the-Packhorse had to carry all of the lacy, indiscreet under things! Other men gave him pitying stares and he wove betwixt the racks of dresses, arms full of frilly uselessness.

And then it was over...possibly. "Is that it then?" he asked.

"Oh no!" shrilled the shop girl, as Jordan squealed to herself. "We still need to get mademoiselle her shoes! And bonnets and scarves and gloves and–"

Erik slowly, calmly, pushed his load into the arms of another shop girl, and in a hoarse voice, asked for an estimate. When it was given, he groaned to himself, before giving Jordie twice as much.

"Erik...?"

"I'll meet you back home," he said, before running madly out of the store.


	5. Deux Ex Machina

**Chapter Five**

_**Deux Ex Machina**_

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**AN: **...I hate this chapter, but oh well...Now go! Go read WastedxOpportunity's POTO/CATS crossover "Presto!" and My-echo's phic, "Close Encounters of the Self Insertion Kind." Please?

**Disclaimer: **Me? Own it? Ha! Surely you jest...

* * *

Jordan stood in the street, arms filled with packages, eyes flitting to and fro. Night fell like ash from the sky, but did nothing to dampen the spirits of the party-going Parisians.

"Great! Just great! Just fan-freaking-tastic!" she grumbled. "Which way do I go?"

A reveler, grinning a little drunkenly, crashed into her. Parcels went flying like baby birds trying out their wings. The man wobbled away, making no attempt to help her as she picked up her packages.

Sighing slightly, Jordan started walking down the street, hoping that she was going the right way. A carriage drove by, horses neighing and wheels running through a mud puddle. Water splashed onto the sidewalk, staining her gown.

"Why me?" she wailed. "Why me?" She tipped her head back, glaring at the skies. "I know someone, somewhere, is responsible for this... (and that there are readers staring at their computer screens, eyebrows raised, wondering what the heck is going on.) Now...this isn't even funny, so help? Please?"

"Breaking the fourth wall, are we?" inquired a voice. Jordie started, glancing wildly around the darkened street.

"Who...?"

"Down here."

She glanced down, meeting the eyes of...

"_You! _Mr. Mistoffelees!"

"The one and only," he purred in response.

"You horrendous fur ball!" she snarled, glaring at the adorable tuxedo cat. "Why I ought'a..."

"Thank me?" he asked, licking one paw in an air of nonchalance.

"For what?"

"For sending you here. For being a deux ex machina. And because I'm going to lead you back to the opera house."

"Oh...yeah..."

Without a backwards glance, Misto started padding away.

"So," Jordan asked, following him. "What are you doing here?"

"You broke the fourth wall. The line that separates audience from character, the suspension of disbelief. You called out for aid, and the lazy–I mean, mighty muses sent me to assist you."

"Ah."

The pair walked in silence for a moment.

"How is Kimberly?"

"Begging me to send her to Gerik's lair twelve hours a day."

"And the other twelve hours?"

"She _cuddles _me like a _plushie_."

"Good for her."

They arrived at the opera house.

"Goodbye, annoying human..." Mr. Mistoffelees said, before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

* * *

Someone was ringing the bellpull by the lake again. Erik sighed soundlessly and put aside his book, the one that Jordie had given him, the one about several recent events involving a vicomte, an ingenue, and himself. 

Walking out the front door, he slipped silently into a trapdoor, following the passage behind it. Humming a melancholy tune, he passed through another door, right next to Jordan.

"Hello," he hissed in his velvet-and-honey voice.

"_Aiie!" _the girl squealed, dropping her parcels and raising her arms defensively. _"Erik! _What did I say about sneaking up on a girl?"

"That I should not. But I must protest. Hearing you shriek like a ballet rat brings a little ray of happiness to my day."

"Prat."

Erik grinned evilly, which of course Jordie could not see, and bent down to pick up a box. Trousers and several plain shirts tumbled out. "And what use have you for these garments, mademoiselle?"

"You don't expect me to wander around in one of those heavy skirts every day, do you?"

He shrugged gracefully and scooped up several packages. "This way," he murmured, walking back into the passage.

"What? No gondola?" she asked, following him.

"The gondola is mostly for show. I prefer using this passageway."

"One if by secret passage, two if by gondola," Jordie sang under her breath. Two glowing yellow stars turned toward her questioningly. "History class, seventh grade. Three of us in the back would amuse ourselves by taking phrases from our textbook, warping them to fit an inside joke, and then singing them to whatever pop song was currently enjoying its five minutes of fame."

"Ah," Erik murmured, wishing he hadn't asked.

* * *

Jordan sprawled across the bed in the Louis-Philippe room, letting boxes and bags filled with frilly things scatter across the covers. Erik tossed his armful of parcels beside the others. 

"Did you get chocolate?" she asked, eyeing his painfully thin, black-clad figure a little wistfully.

"Yes, I did. And a box of the rather useless sugariness is right..." he pointed to the vanity table. "There."

"It's not useless!" she protested, bouncing off the bed. "It is god's gift to human kind!" She grinned slightly. "Especially PMS-ing women."

"PM–what?"

"Don't ask," Jordie said, picking up the box of chocolate and tearing it open gleefully. With a sigh of happiness, she started to chew on a caramel.

"But I just did."

"Hmph!–Want some?" she asked, pointing at the box.

"I don't eat, thank you very kindly."

"Everyone needs to eat sometimes. C'mon, just try a piece! What's the harm?"

Erik edged slightly closer, leaning over the chocolate box. "Well, I suppose..." He gently pulled out a chocolate-covered toffee.

With an evil smirk, she commented sweetly, "By the way, did you know that chocolate releases endorphins, which give one the feeling of being in love?"

The toffee was hastily put back in the box. "You don't say."

An awkward silence descended.

"You know..." Jordan began, clearing her throat. "You said that you'd show me the stage..."

"I said that 'perhaps' I'd show you the stage. 'Perhaps' means 'maybe.' 'Perhaps' does not mean 'definitely.'"

"Please?"

"No."

"But..."

"No!" Erik hissed, attempting to walk away.

She clutched at his sleeve. "_Please?_"

"When your parents were teaching you to speak, did they somehow forget to instruct you on the meaning of the word 'no' by any chance?"

"You...you...Meanie!"

"Your intelligent retort outshines my silly little remark, mam'selle. I am impressed!" he commented with an acidic chuckle.

"Pest," she muttered. "Mm'kay... Show me the opera house, and I'll tell you all about your phandom."

"My... fandom...?" He paused, head tilting to one side.

"_Phan_dom, yes. Containing all of your drooling little phans and their phics."

"Fics?"

"Nuh-uh-uh!" Jordie waggled a finger at him. "Give me a tour of the opera, and I'll give you a tour of your phandom." She smiled evilly. "Deal?"

A sigh. "I suppose. Is tomorrow acceptable?"

"Squee!"

"I assume that 'squee,' at this moment, translates to 'yes.'"

"Squee!"

"All right then."


End file.
